


your hand in mine (goodbye)

by agirlnamedfia



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedfia/pseuds/agirlnamedfia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back, Patrick would say it started with the headaches and the tired feeling. He’d felt it coming for a while already, even pre-tour if he was completely honest with himself, but he told himself he was young and resilient and he could handle it; and, besides, what would he have to handle, because he was <i>fine</i>, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hand in mine (goodbye)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Team Angst, for the Peterickfics 2007 Fic War, originally posted [here](http://peterickfics.livejournal.com/98330.html). Prompt was [this](http://i46.photobucket.com/albums/f111/lutchien/prompts/postmarks_b19.jpg)

When Patrick leaves the doctor’s office, his hands are shaking so much he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to drive home. His key scritches over the ignition three times before he exhales and puts his head on the steering wheel, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths.

 

** I. **

 

_Pittsburgh, PA_

It’s morning in Pittsburgh already, early morning, and Patrick’s standing in front of the window with a cup of coffee. The steam is fogging up the window a little, and he squashes the urge to draw little stick figures in it like he did when he was little. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes, he can smell himself and there are dark circles around his eyes that are not make-up related in any way. He hasn’t slept decently in over 72 hours.

-

Looking back, Patrick would say it started then. It started with the headaches and the tiredness. He’d felt it coming for a while, even pre-tour if he was completely honest, but he told himself he was young and resilient and he could handle it; and, besides, what would he have to handle, because he was fine, really.

But they were a few days in when the pressure behind his eyelids got worse, sometimes developing into stabbing pain for a while, before dulling back to a monotone drill and eventually wearing off into a soft pressure again. He felt worn out already, always tired but never really able to sleep. It was kind of like he had inherited Pete’s sleeping habits and Pete (who was sleeping well and undisturbed for a change) was following his patterns. It was weird.

But, Patrick told himself, not _really_ weird, because he had felt it a bit before the tour started, so it was simply the result of starting a pretty heavy tour when his body wasn’t a hundred percent. Clear, easy and obvious. And, besides, he was totally fine on stage, didn’t feel a single something bothering him, and wouldn’t he if he were really sick?

-

Looking back, Patrick would say it started with the headaches and the tiredness. But, as it is, it only really started when things got worse.

 

+++

 

_Buffalo, NY_

Most notable at first was the bruising. He’s not really a tan type of person and next to Pete he knows he stands out, but he’s never been frail. Actually, he can take rather a lot. You kind of have to, because you’re bound to get hit by some stray projectiles when hanging out in the same area as Pete and Dirty.

Joe sees it first. It’s strange, because you’d think with all the time they spend together it would be Pete. But Joe comes into his room when they’re in New York in the same second that Patrick darts out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist to fish his toothbrush out of his duffel. Patrick only notices he’s there when Joe says something.

“Dude, do you have… are those bruises on your back?”

Patrick yelps and almost drops his towel in spinning around. (Though, really, it’s not as if Joe hasn’t seen him naked already. But still.) And then:

“Dude, what? I don’t have bruises on my back” Patrick scoffs and turns around again. He’s pretty sure he put his toothbrush in his side pocket, but it’s not there and he knows his breath smells and if there’s one thing he can’t stand it’s that. But then Joe’s behind him, pressing his fingers to Patrick’s lower back, a little to the left and suddenly there’s a sharp sting blooming out. Patrick yelps again and Joe has to duck to avoid his arm shooting out.

“See?” he says, satisfied. “Told you so. Bruises.”

Patrick glares and massages the sore spot while walking to the mirror. He’s ready to prove Joe wrong in every way, but when he looks at his reflection he sees there’s a semi-large, purplish bruise spreading out over the left lower half of his back, and a few smaller ones scattered on the right.

“Huh,” he says.

-

Joe hounds him about it for days, he comes up with the most outrageous ways Patrick could have gotten the bruises, ranging from ‘wild sex with a couple of chicks’ to ‘rolling around on the ground outside naked and accidentally hitting a rock’ (at which point Joe was stoned but it actually made Patrick pause and turn around, because what the fuck?) But the truth is, Patrick has no clue how he got the bruises. Which, actually, is a little bit disconcerting. But, he figures, there aren’t any huge gaping black holes in his memory, so he doesn’t think he got them in a way that’s incriminating, which is at least something.

He ignores it when Pete’s bass smacks against his side on stage two days later and a painful purplish blur mars his skin for almost a whole week.

-

He’s more careful after that, wears a bathrobe. He pays more attention to his surroundings too, avoiding bumps with anything and anyone; because the less chance of actual bruises, the less chance of anyone seeing them and asking questions.

He doesn’t really know why he’s so intent on hiding it from the other guys, aside from the fact that he doesn’t want to risk anyone starting a fuss. Andy’s usually pretty laid back about these things, but Pete sometimes spontaneously turns into a fucking mother hen when Ashlee’s around.

Patrick figures: tiredness, bruising, maybe he’s got a little infection or something. A slight case of the flu or something, whatever. It’s not affecting his playing, and seriously, he’s fine.

 

+++

 

After the bruising, things go downhill faster. The first time it happens, Patrick isn’t on stage. The second time he is. The third time, he’s thankfully ensconced in his bunk.

-

_Hartford, CT_

The first time, he’s just in the back lounge of their bus, screwing around on his MacBook. Greta sent him some songs to have a look at, and he’s already trying to come up with ways to work with the rhythm and the melodies to make her and Bob’s voice come out as best as possible. There’s no one else around, Pete and Joe are in the bunks (Pete doing whatever online, Joe napping) and Andy’s in the front with Dirty and Dan. He’s enjoying a rare headache-free night, and though he’s not feeling 100 percent, he’s starting to kind of have trouble remembering how that felt.

He’s about to fire up GarageBand when the fingers on his right hand suddenly cramp up and spasm. It hurts like a bitch and he yelps loudly, trying to stretch and un-stretch his fingers, trying to get the cramp to wear off. Pete comes in after a second, asking what the noise was all about, but it's worn off by now so Patrick just shrugs and says "Muscle cramp."

Pete looks at him a little oddly. "You never have those." Patrick just shrugs in reply and gingerly tries to get his fingers to work the mouse again.

-

Wantaugh, NY

The second time, though, he is on stage. He hadn't really thought much of it before, but they're just kicking off the opening tunes of Sixteen Candles when he looks up and suddenly the stage lights and his mic and the security guys in front of the railing, it's all blurry. He blinks a few times, trying to get his eyesight to clear but it doesn't help. His fingers are twitching again too, fumbling to find the right chords on his guitar, pain shooting through his hand. A stray note twinges, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Joe throw him a look.

Just when he's about to start panicking a little, it wears off. His eyesight refocuses, his hands are steady once again and it's like nothing happened. He carries on like normal, but it returns throughout the whole set. Muscle cramps like little needles stabbing pin holes in his hands and arms; colours and lines blurring together, clouding his vision for a few seconds before returning to normal.

Nobody says a thing after the show, but he can see worried looks being shot in his direction anyway.

-

_Indianapolis, IN_

The third time is the worst. He's in his bunk, almost asleep. Joe's in the bunk above him and Andy and Pete are out somewhere with Charlie. When it hits him, his legs and arms start to spasm like before, only worse. They ache like a bitch and he yells out in half surprise and half shock. His vision blurs and goes black for a few moments and then, as quickly as it happened, it’s over and he's lying in his bunk, blinking up at the ceiling while Joe's still shaking his shoulders a bit. (He's pretty sure he must have looked like an idiot having a seizure to Joe when he pulled the curtains back).

"The hell, dude?!" Joe asks, but Patrick blinks. He doesn’t know what the hell is happening, but he knows he doesn’t like it.

"I'm fine," he says though, before Joe can get another word in, waving his hands to get rid of the last twinges. The last thing he wants is to worry any of the other guys. Joe looks at him oddly, but he doesn't protest. He stares at Patrick intently, though, and only leaves when Patrick glares and says "Dude. I'm fine."

 

+++

 

It doesn’t stop there. That one time in his bunk was, apparently, the cue for his muscles to ache all day, every day. They twitch occasionally, but mostly there’s a dull ache in his arms and legs, and his joints. It’s not painful per se, more like annoying. It’s like he’s itching on the inside of his skin and there’s no possible way to scratch it. He’s worried, thinks about going to a doctor, but, really, it’s manageable. And besides, he’s 99% sure that if he goes to a doctor, he’ll just get the same answer he got the last few times he got sick: lack of decent food, lack of sleep. So really, what’s the point in going if you already know what they’re going to say?

They play a few more shows (three times Chicago, Charlotte and what he thinks is Atlanta, but he’s not sure), and for while he’s fine. He feels good off stage, the headache and muscle soreness easily manageable, and when he gets on that stage, the rush makes him forget about everything but the fans and the words and the songs.

 

+++

 

_Houston, TX_

When Patrick opens his eyes, the first thing he realizes is that those headaches that had been holding off for a while now, hey, they’re back! He groans a bit and gropes to his right, trying to locate the curtains of his bunk so that he can swing them closed and hopefully create a more sleep-friendly atmosphere.

He has his second realization of the day (apparently he fell asleep in the back lounge) after he tumbles off the couch and smacks his head on the floor. Sunlight is glaring through the open windows already, even though it can barely be morning (6:45 am, his watch tells him) and his head is pounding. His vision is swimming and it actually takes a while before he can stand up straight without having to hold onto something. He’s shivering a little, sweating, and he alternately feels like he’s freezing and like he’s on fire.

He’s stumbling back to the bunk section when Pete comes in, still wearing his pajamas, yawning and running a hand through his tousled hair.

“Sup Patr- Woah. Dude. You okay?” he asks, blinking.

Patrick winces as he shakes his head a little bit. “I think I’m gonna throw up.” He croaks and stumbles past Pete and into the tiny bathroom. He heaves once, twice, with Pete hovering worriedly behind him.

“I’m calling a doctor,” he says, fishing his Sidekick out of his pajama pocket. Patrick heaves again.

 

+++

 

Dr. Harveston enters the bus about 45 minutes after Pete dialed. In that short time span, Pete woke up Andy and Joe, made soup, moved Patrick to the couch, tucked blankets around him, tucked them back again after Patrick bolted to the bathroom to throw up and paced a whole lot. The doctor takes his temperature (99F, not really a lot to worry about), peers in his throat (nothing noteworthy) and takes a blood sample.

“How have you been feeling lately?” he asks, and Patrick winces as the needle penetrates his skin.

“Okay, I guess,” he says. “A bit tired and I had some headaches, but that’s tour related, I’ve always had those.”

The doctor nods and plugs the tube onto the wire that’s attached to the needle. “For how long?”

Patrick shrugs. “I don’t know, a while. Three weeks? Maybe four.”

A nod and he carefully unplugs the tube and adds on another, while fishing a notebook out of his back and writing a few things down. “And nothing out of the ordinary, aside from that?”

Patrick shakes his head, but Joe cuts in. “Dude. You had that seizure and you were complaining about muscle cramps a lot.”

The doctor straightens up and looks expectantly at Joe. “Seizure?” he asks.

Joe opens his mouth to reply, but Patrick cuts him off before he can start off on his dramatic recitation of the (according to him, traumatizing) event. “I’ve been having trouble with my muscles cramping at random intervals. My sight gets blurry too, sometimes. Anyway, at one point my legs and arms just sort of cramped up and spasmed a little at the same time. Not a seizure, really, it just… kinda looked like one?”

There are a few minutes of silence while Dr. Harveston unplugs the second tube, places them in a container in his bag and scribbles more down, a frown marring his face. Then Pete, who’d been leaning on the counter, his face unreadable, speaks up.

“He’s been bruising really easily too.” He says. “And he’s lost weight.”

The doctor turns to Patrick for confirmation and he nods reluctantly. Dr. Harveston nods and writes a few more things down, before closing his notebook and putting it back into his bag.

“Alright,” he says, turning to all of them, “here’s what I’m going to do. Those blood samples are going to the lab for analysis. Meanwhile,” he turns to Patrick, “lots of rest for you. No more shows until we get the test results back and--”

“When will that be?” Patrick interrupts. “Because I’d like to know whatever the hell is wrong as soon as possible.”

“It should be only two to three days. I’m prescribing you something for the nausea. Your fever isn’t worrisome as of yet, but should it get worse, call me immediately.” They all nod at the instructions, and Dr. Harveston hands a scribbled prescription to Andy before shrugging his coat back on.

Joe and Andy show him out, leaving themselves to get Patrick’s prescription; and Pete curls up on the couch with Patrick, folding his arms around Patrick’s waist.

“You’ll be okay.” He mutters softly to Patrick’s collarbone when he’s drifting off to sleep. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Patrick’s asleep before he can reply properly.

 

+++

 

_“Mr. Stump? The doctor will see you now.”_

_-_

_“Mr. Stump, have a seat. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”_

_-_

_“Your CBC, the blood test, showed us an alarming amount of white blood cells.”_

_-_

_“…chronic myelogenous leukemia.”_

_-_

_“…abnormal protein is making bone marrow produce large amounts of dysfunctional white blood cells that are crowding out the healthy ones.”_

_-_

_“…afraid to say you are already bordering between the accelerated and final phase.”_

_-_

_“…can be treated, and there is a chance of recovery due to the recent developments in the drug industry.”_

 

+++

 

He drives on in a sort of semi-numb, semi-freaking out state. There’s a static buzzing in his ears, but he keeps his eyes on the road and his fingers gripping the steering wheel.

 

** II. **

 

_Chicago, IL_

On the first day of his chemo, Patrick feels fine. The doctor gave him the pills, explained the possible side-effects (nausea, headaches, rash, edema and musculoskeletal pain) and then stood around as Patrick took the first (of what would become many). But Patrick doesn’t throw up, doesn’t have a headache, nothing. He would almost be able to say that he feels better than before. Of course, he tells Andy and Joe laughingly in the car, that’s when he should know the shit is really going to hit the fan.

 

+++

 

There are bags in the hall when they enter the house in Chicago. They’re stacked up neatly, ready to be taken out. Pete comes down the stairs, talking on the phone while waving his hand about. His face clouds over when he sees them.

"Hey, hey, Ash, I'll call you back, yeah? ... Okay, awesome. See you then!" he says, hanging up the phone just as he's at the end of the stairs.

"The hell is this, Pete?" Andy snaps as soon as Pete's finished his phone call. "Are you-- What the fuck are you doing?"

Pete opens his mouth to reply, but Patrick cuts him off before he can say anything. "He's leaving." He straightens up and looks Pete straight in the eye. "To LA, to Ashlee, if I'm not mistaken. Aren't you, Pete?"

For a split second, Pete looks sheepish and then his face hardens again. "Yeah. I am," he replies, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and turning his right foot out.

-

After the original diagnosis, when he'd returned from Dr. Harveston, it had taken Patrick a while to process things. It hadn't got easier when he'd went back to the bus. There’d been a dead silence when he told them. Nobody had said a word and Patrick hadn't known what the hell he was supposed to do other than state the obvious “I have leukemia”. So he'd stared at his hands and fidgeted, waiting for them to process the information. It hadn't taken too long. Also unsurprising, Pete had been the first to say anything.

“You’re kidding, right,” he'd laughed. “This is some sick joke you’re pulling, Trick.”

Patrick had blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “It’s not- It’s not a joke, Pete,” he'd said, his voice only a little unstable. Not a joke, he'd thought, because God knew he’d wished it was an amazing amount of times.

Pete’s face had set into a sort of half laughing, painfully grinning grimace. “Cut the crap, Trick,” he'd laughed.

Patrick had clenched his fingers and suppressed the urge the urge to yell. "It's. Not. A. Joke. Do you really think I would joke about this?"

Pete's face had slackened and then hardened again. "Whatever, asshole." He'd gotten up from the table and left the bus.

-

"I can't-- Come on, Pete, be reasonable." Joe says, "You can't just. Dude. C'mon."

Andy's crossed his arms over his chest and he and Patrick still have their eyes set on Pete, whose face is turned to the ground. When he looks up eventually, he's looking at Patrick directly, his face unreadable.

"Look. I just. I can't do this, okay? This whole--," he waves his arms around. "I just can't."

Patrick bristles and takes a step forward, his hands clenched to fists by his sides. "Get your head out of your ass, Wentz. I have cancer. Can-cer. Deal with it," he hisses. Pete's face twists in anger and for a second Patrick's sure he's going to get punched by his best friend. But Pete just snarls "Fuck. You.", picks up his suitcases and brushes past them and out the door.

Patrick stands there with his fists still clenched, his eyes focused on the spot where Pete had been standing.

 

+++

 

Things always get worse before they get better. Patrick knows this, he's painfully aware of it when he's clutching the toilet and throwing up the content of his stomach, which isn't much to begin with. He's on his eighth dose by now, twice a day, and the side effects are coming in full splendour.

"Hey man," Joe says from the doorway. He's carrying a damp washcloth and crouches down to press it to Patrick's forehead. Patrick sighs and rests his cheek against the toilet. He's been throwing up since day two. It's only day 4 and already he's had it.

"Hey, think of it this way. You're mostly throwing up in the morning, so you'll be done throwing up pretty soon!" Joe says cheerfully. "It's like morning sickness! Oh, hey! Maybe you're pregnant and the doctors simply didn't notice..."

Patrick throws the washcloth at him.

 

+++

 

It gets harder, pretty soon after. Some days he'll think back of the 'morning sickness' and get wistful. He's nauseous pretty much all the time now, though the actual throwing up has been reduced some. They have to move his bed from his upstairs room to the living room downstairs, because climbing the stairs often gets a bit too difficult.

His mom comes to visit with Kevin. Patrick's having one of his bad days, he has to stay tucked up in his bed in the living room. Andy and Joe hover in the background until his mom beckons for them to join them. She whips out the old photo albums and pretty soon they're all laughing, even Patrick. He notices the worried looks she shoots him though, and after, when Andy, Joe and Kevin are in the kitchen cooking dinner, her hands tremble when she hugs him and whispers in his ear that everything's going to be okay.

They have dinner in the kitchen and Kevin talks about the nutjob his boss hired the other week, who has pink hair and is always, always, always too late. They laugh, and Patrick reminds Kevin of his own stint with hair-dye, which, thankfully, was short and didn't include pink. His mom and Kevin leave soon afterwards, with the promise of phone-calls and more visits.

Patrick goes back to the living room after they've gone, but he's feeling better, so he sticks to the couch, rather than the bed. He still has two working thumbs as well and makes it through a game of Halo before handing the controller over to Andy. The TV in the kitchen is on MTV when he goes to get a drink, and halfway through bending over for the juice, the tone of the TV changes and when Patrick looks up there's a video of Pete and Ashlee stumbling out of The Viper Room, with a VJ voiceover informing the viewers that this is Pete Wentz, Fall Out Boy bassist and his girlfriend Ashlee Simpson, having just left another of those parties they seem to like to frequent lately. He goes on, talking about how the two have been frequent guests at parties and clubs all over town, seemingly very happy.

Patrick leaves the juice on the floor.

 

+++

 

** III. **

 

On his next visit Patrick is by himself, Andy and Joe had somewhere else to be. The doctor tells him to have a seat, takes up his chart and then says that the medication isn't taking anymore.

"Your white blood cell count was alarmingly high when we started the treatment, and for a while it appeared to get better. But I'm sorry to say that it didn't. The cells appear to have become immune to the chemotherapy, Patrick, I'm sorry."

Patrick's sitting in the chair dazedly, his head spinning. In a distant corner of his mind he wonders if Andy and Joe not coming was an omen, if seeing Pete kiss Ashlee outside of the Hyde Lounge and laughing broadly was an omen, if dropping the dishes this morning was an omen. His fingers are clenching the armrests as he croaks out a "How long?".

"You can never be sure of things like that--"

"How. Long." Patrick cuts him off. His voice is trembling a little, but he can't bring himself to care. He'd wondered, worried, when they upped his dosage, even though they told him, truthfully, that it wasn't abnormal for someone in the later stages of the disease as he was. They'd done everything they could to reassure him, but he'd still fretted.

"Less than four months, probably. I'm sorry, Patrick."

Later on, Patrick can't remember how he got home without causing or being in the middle of a car accident. He drives on auto-pilot, his mind completely numb, an endless repetition of 4 months, 4 months, 4 months 4 months 4 fucking months. Nobody's home when he gets there, and he stumbles on the stairs in the hall. He hits his elbow on a step, a curse escaped him and suddenly a warm heat blooms in his throat. Tears are falling down his cheeks before he even good and well realizes that he's crying, sobs wracking his body. He pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his head on his knees, tears soaking his jeans. That's how Andy finds him an hour and a half later, at the foot of the stairs, hugging his knees to his chest and staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

Andy picks him up and carries him to the bed in the living room. He doesn't want to ask what happened, but he doesn't really have to either. He's well aware of what could crush Patrick like this.

 

+++

 

They're stoic when Patrick repeats what the doctor told him, but Patrick hears the crack of the wall when Andy slams his fist through it; and he recognizes Joe's attempt at keeping his emotions under control. In some distant part of his mind he knows he should care about them more, he should comfort them, connect with them so that they can get through this together. But it is only a distant part of his mind and Patrick rarely gets out of bed the days after the visit.

But that is then, and Patrick does know that if he only has four months left, he's not going to waste the hours he can spend somewhere else in his bed. So he gets up. He goes to visit his mom and he tells her and she cries. He hugs her and squeezes his own eyes shut to prevent tears from escaping. He doesn't succeed completely, a few roll over his cheek anyway, and he wipes them off when they let go.

She hugs him again when he leaves, clinging to him a little bit, promising she'll come visit with Kevin. Patrick knows she's trying not to cry.

The doctor gave him morphine for when the pain gets too bad, but it's a while before Patrick starts using it. He's not a big fan of needles, especially when he has to inject himself.

It takes him three weeks to call Pete.

 

+++

 

_I know you're probably not going to want to hear this, Pete, but you're not picking up and your voicemail can't ignore me, so voicemail it is. I... I'm dying, Pete. I know you're clenching your fists right now, because you don't want to believe it, you asshole, but I am. And running away to LA to party with Ashlee isn't going to help nor change that._

_I'm not sure you'll even get to this part of the message, but. I went to the doctor the other day. And. Look, Pete, my meds aren't cutting it anymore, the chemo's not working. I'm don't just have cancer anymore, I'm dying of it; and I just- It's not- I've only got two months left, you dick. Come home. Please._

 

+++

 

"I heard you on the phone last night." Andy says, while doing the dishes. Patrick's sitting in the comfy chair they put in the kitchen.

"Are you- Have you been spying on me?!" Patrick asks disbelievingly. He'd figured his mom to pull a stunt like that, but not Andy.

"Not spying," Andy replies, "Just--," he sets the dry plates in the cupboard to the side and turns around to face Patrick, "--making sure you're okay."

Patrick sighs and averts his gaze to his hands in his lap. "I just... I couldn't not. You know?" He looks up, "I had to at least try. I don't," he swallows the lump in his throat, averts his gaze back to his hands and his next words are whispered. "I don't want to die without seeing him."

Andy nods. "He'll be here."

Patrick smiles feebly in return, but doesn't say anything. It's a long while before he looks up again.

 

+++

 

Patrick Martin Stumph, born April 27, 1984, dies on August 26, 2007, of chronic myelogenous leukemia.

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III is at that moment flying over Kansas, on his way to Chicago.

 

+++

 

** IV. **

 

Patrick's already standing by the railing when Pete gets there. He's got a red baseball cap on his head, tucked on firmly, and his hair is waving a little in the wind. The setting sun makes his hair look like it's on fire. He doesn't look up when Pete goes to stand next to him.

"You're late."

Pete nods. "I am. I'm sorry."

Patrick smiles and turns to him. "I've missed you," he says, reaching out and pulling Pete into a hug. Pete presses his face into Patrick's neck and breathes in his scent, trying to hold on to it, trying to memorize what he'll never have. They let go and turn back to the ocean, but Pete fidgets, looking at his wringing hands and his shoes. He starts when Patrick lays his hand on his.

"Calm down, Pete," he says.

Pete nods a little, but his eyes are wide and rimmed red. "I didn't--," his voice breaks. "Patrick, I never meant to--"

"I know," Patrick interrupts, smiling softly. "I know."

Pete's eyes are filled with tears. "I'm so sorry. I didn't-- no, let me finish this. I didn't mean to hurt you, I didn't. I just. I didn't want you to go and I thought that if I didn't do anything it would go away, and I know it was stupid. I know." He looks up and there are tears on his cheeks. "And now--," the sentence catches in his throat, "--now you're gone. And I didn't-- I wasn't-- I don't understand, it doesn't make any sense! Why you? Why not me? I don't--"

Patrick tugs Pete into his arms once more, and Pete clutches to Patrick's shoulders, sobbing, mumbling muffled _I'm so sorry _s. His body is trembling as Patrick rubs soothing circles over his back. It takes a while for him to still, but he doesn't let go until Patrick unclasps his hands and forces him to look up.__

__"It's okay," Patrick says calmly. "It's going to be okay. It'll all make sense some day."_ _

__"But I don't-- I don't think I can do this without you." Pete whispers hoarsely. "It's like--"_ _

__"You can," Patrick cuts him off. "I know you can. You're strong, and you can do this. Okay?"_ _

__Pete nods, but his face is turned away. Patrick clasps his hand around Pete's chin and forces him to look up. "Look at me. Listen to me. You can do this and you will do this. Okay?"_ _

__"But," Pete whispers, his voice trembling, "I wasn't. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye."_ _

__"So say goodbye," Patrick replies and presses a kiss to his forehead._ _

__-_ _

__Pete wakes up with a start, alone in Patrick's bed, in the living room downstairs. He touches the tears on his cheek as he looks to the unmade side of the bed, Patrick's side._ _

__Someday this'll all make sense._ _


End file.
